


As the Coin Has Two Sides

by rhymeswithmonth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 805 fix-it, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Cleganebowl, Fix-It, I took the broad events and reworked them, Targaryen Madness, Valonqar Prophecy, and how it could have gone, and thats the end of that, but tell me if this wouldn't have been better, done less ham-fisted I think, elements of mad queen daeny, everyone gets a dash of their character back, i'm just a mere amateur writer, ps in my version euron greyjoy burned to death instantly on his ship, season 8 fix-it, the battle for kings landing, you can fill the inbetweens with canon typical gratuitous battle scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-05 06:38:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: In the square below her generals wait. They’ve halted their advance for the time being, to wait. To give Tyrion Lannister the chance he’d begged for to try to broker a surrender with the queen. But the minutes tick by and the bells remain silent. Daenerys Targaryen has waited twenty years for this moment, and she won’t wait much longer.The Battle for Kings Landing happens like this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in less than 24 hours after 805, so it's probably a little sloppy. But then again, so was 805.

**VARYS**

On the beaches of Dragonstone, in the dark of night. A group of men gather with torches, although the light from the moon alone is bright enough. Aside for the place where a hulking shelf of black rock hangs overhead, blocking out the silver glow. In that place where the white meets the black is where a small figure stands, swathed half and half. Daenerys Targaryen, her unbound silver hair catches the moon in a way that is almost luminous. She stares stonily at the man bowed before her, held on each side by armoured unsullied guards. Even in this light the red rimming her eyes is visible.

“Lord Varys.” She addresses, cold and emotionless. When the man lifts his chin to look back, his face is anything but, devastation in every line of his face. “You stand here on this night accused of treason. You stand accused of conspiring to overthrow your queen. You stand accused of attempting to murder your queen. How do you plead?”

“Your Grace, you must know how dearly I love you, I have served you as best I know how. I-“

She interrupts, ice cold dagger cutting through his words. “I did not ask for a declaration of personal affection. I asked if you tried to kill me. How do you plead?”

He hangs his head back down. “Guilty your Grace. But you must understand! I did it for the good of the realm! I-“

“I must _do_ nothing. I do not care to hear your reasons. I already know why you did it. I know what you think of me, I know what they all think of me. For they started thinking it from the moment I was born. What is it that they say, the mighty lords of this realm; that every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin? That is correct is it not?”

He looks agonized. The men gathered around them shift uncomfortably, exchanging low glances, their feet stirring the sand. “I hope-“ Varys starts, voice breaking, “I sincerely hope that I am wrong.”

Daenerys Targaryen stares balefully, clearly unmoved by the man’s words. In the shadowy depths of the cave behind her, something massive disturbs the pitch. The sound of displaced stones sliding against each other. Varys quakes.

“Lord Varys. I, Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Queen of the Ashes,” as she speaks the head of the last dragon emerges above her, great jaw parted to taste the air, “and Mother of Dragons, find you guilty of all charges.”

Varys has never been the sort of man to claim fearlessness, or scoff at death. Right now he is very afraid. He closes his eyes and ducks his chin, unable to bear the sight. “As punishment for your crimes,” the queen continues, tone never once fluctuating, “I sentence you…” he braces himself, as if anyone could ever prepare for this.

“To spend the rest of your life in isolation the dungeons of Dragonstone.” His head jerks up, mouth agape. All the gathered men wear similarly shocked expressions. The queen is still expressionless, dead-eyed. “You will rot, Varys. Your titles stripped, your hands bound, never to speak to another soul again. Not another day will pass with your whispers on its breeze, not another dynasty will feel your fingers twined in it’s strings. But you will not die today.”

He gasps, like a drowning man taking his first breath, or perhaps his last. “My Queen I-!”

“Do not mistake this.” She snaps, her voice taking an edge for the first time. “This is not mercy, nor is it love. You will live so that you may see that you are wrong. You will witness your own foolishness. And you will rot with it.”

He can no longer hold back his sobs, face running with tears. Even he cannot separate his grief from relief to say which it is he feels. Without another word the Queen turns her back and departs. A beat passes before the others scramble to follow, the two unsullied haul Varys to his feet, finding that his legs won’t support him they drag him through the sand.

Finally there is but two figures remaining. Jon Snow exchanges a long, lingering look with Tyrion Lannister before he hurries after the rest. The dwarf waits even another minute alone as the light from the last torch disappears with him. He appears frozen in place, until a deep rumble sounds from the rocks, growing louder into a ferocious snarl. He jolts, and hurries away.

 

**CERSEI**

_Golden orange glow hits the window, filters through the lattice to cast little starbursts throughout the room. The gossamer curtains billow and lift around her feet. There’s a kitten there somewhere, a tiny flash of golden dapple. A scampering, the clicking of claws on tile. Footsteps chase it, wee little boots of soft silk. Tommen’s giggle like music echoing. Don’t tease it my love, you’ll get scratched. White petals drift through the air, a whole bud lands on the railing by her hand. Jasmine. Myrcella’s hair always smells of jasmine, she likes to wear them wound into her braids. The bud is too dry, wizened until it could no longer keep hold of the vine. The silk feeling of Myrcella’s silky hair between fingers, cross this lock over the other, bring the third around now, and back to the first. A small warm body leaning back against her breast. Jasmine heavy in the air. The despondent cry of a baby, hush now hush, mamas here. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Hum a lullaby. Her darling baby is always so discontent, always fussing always crying, except when he’s here snug against her bosom. It’s an easy solution; she shall simply never put him down. Her little angel prince Joff. She wonders when Jaime is going to be back, surely he’s not long from them now. Where has Jaime gone?_

Light hits the window, intense burst of burning hellfire that flares brilliant in the dark of the chamber for a moment before falling dark. Ash drifts through the air, caught in the spiralling curtains.

There’s a cat against the wall, It hisses at her, bearing its fangs. It’s old and grizzled, skinny and mad feral. It turns tail and flees, fur on end. Cersei withdraws her had slowly, turning it over to inspect the four perfect slices of blood already welling across her knuckles.

She stands back up and walks over to the table. There’s a layer of white ash collected on the rim of the wine pitcher. With the pad of one finger she carefully brushes it away so that she can pour herself a fresh glass.

Searing light dances outside. The bay is on fire. It’s nothing to be concerned about, the fire. It’s down there and they’re up here. As long as we’re here nothing can hurt us, as long as we’re together it’ll be alright. Nobody is allowed in this chamber except for her and her babies, this is their private sanctuary. Even Robert stays out for the most part. They can’t hurt us here, just stay here, just don’t leave.

Qyburn had tried to get her to leave. He’d been begging by the end, frightened by the fire down below. He hadn’t believed her when she told him that they were safe here. She’s gotten tired of his whining, pitiful little man, and ordered Ser Gregor to get him out of her sight. He’d spluttered and puffed up red in the face, and Ser Gregor had picked him up by the hood of his robe like he was nothing and gotten him out of her sight sure enough, right down the stairs like he was nothing at all. He should have known better than the try and leave. “We will die if we stay” he had insisted, “Your Grace please! They’ll kill you!” Stupid fool. She won’t die, because Jaime isn’t here yet. To even suggest she might die without him!

She swirls the wine methodically, let it breathe, lifts it to her nose to savour the bouquet. Its her favourite vintage imported from Volantis. She’s had a few goblets already, just enough to stir her blood and allow her to truly enjoy the show unfolding before her. It’s beautiful, the golden bursts are beautiful. 

And it’s all for her.

 

**TYRION**

Tyrion doesn’t wish that Jaime was here, truly he doesn’t. Jaime is far better off where he is, safe and sound in the north having finally  _finally_  found a shred of peace for himself, not to mention a sweet girl to warm his bed. Gods know he deserves it.

But it certainly would be very convenient if Jaime was here. If a one of them had a chance in hell at success in this it would definitely be Jaime. But Jaime is not here. It’s just little old Tyrion.

When he’d asked Daenerys to let him try, she’d given him the ultimatum. “I am going to destroy her ships.” She had said. “I am going to destroy her army. And then, if she still hasn’t surrendered I am going to destroy her. I am going to burn that castle to the ground, regardless who is left inside. Do you understand?”

He understood perfectly. They’ve been headed in this direction for a long time now. Her patience has been tested too far, her heart broken too many times in this country. She’s done playing to their advice, and he can’t even find it in him to really blame her. He’s not sure where it was that it started going wrong but he’d give anything to go back and try something, anything, to get back the conviction and camaraderie that had bound them in those early days.

But they are past the point of no return. If he is not back in time she will burn the castle with him inside. This is how war has hewn their lovely young queen. Of course, she is still lovely and young, painfully so, but like a diamond, pressure and polish has turned her hard and razor sharp.

“I understand. You promise that when they ring the bells you will stop?”

“ _If_  they ring the bells, I will await Cersei to bend the knee on the executioners block.  _If_  you truly believe that you can convince her to do so I will not burn the city.”

She does not believe he can do it; perhaps she hopes that he will fail. He doesn’t even know if he believes that he can do it. Jaime might have been able to convince their sister to walk away from her doomed throne. Her beautiful beloved soulmate. But even then, maybe not. What chance does the little wicked imp have?

He gazes up at Daenerys and knows this Is the last time they’ll be together like this. If he can’t convince Cersei, he’ll die in a storm of dragon fire. And if he can - if this desperate bid works and he gets his sister into the boat and off to a new life across the sea - Daenerys will burn him for a traitor. He holds no hope that she’ll spare his life like she did Varys. No. It’ll be death for him either way.

He has to do it. It’s his duty as her hand of the queen to do everything in his power to keep her reign long and prosperous. If there’s even the slimmest chance to avoid more innocent blood-spill, he needs to make it work. Even if she hates him for it, even if he’s remembered as a traitor.

He bows to her one last time. She doesn’t even look at him, already turning away.

This is all he has left to offer.

 

**ARYA**

There’s a boat tied up at the back of the castle, right outside of the hidden entrance to the dungeons. It’s a well sized boat, enough of a sail to make speed, thick enough of hull to brave open waters, yet small enough to be piloted by one person. The enclosed portion is too small to be called a cabin, but would offer some protection against the elements. There’s a figure moving about inside.

Arya draws her sword; The Hound already has his in hand. Tyrion Lannister emerges from the boat, eye-level with their blades - and freezes. He looks entirely off guard and scrambles to school his features, but not before they see the guilt all over it. The Hound cackles and lowers his weapon. Arya does not. “What are you doing?”

Lannister doesn’t answer right away. He’s holding what looks like a blanket, or a thick piece of clothing, which he slowly lowers onto the deck of the boat. “I should be asking you the same, you’re supposed to be safe and sound at home in Winterfell. Not sneaking around the sewers in the middle of a war. How did you find this place anyway?”

A deflection. “I used to chase down lost strays here.” She tells him, and then looks him pointedly up and down, “And now I’m here to kill Cersei. What about you? I would have thought you’d be with  _your_  queen.”

Again he takes a long time to deliberate a response. His small shoulders slump and he heaves a loaded exhale. “Well I… it appears that you’ve caught me. It’s as it looks, I’m here to save Cersei.”

Arya had assumed as much. There would be no other reason for him to be here like this. “Then we’re on opposite sides once again.”

Tyrion shakes his head, and offers an unsteady smile, “Oh on the contrary I don’t see it that way at all. We want the same thing - Cersei off the throne and unable to do any more harm.”

“She can’t do any more harm if she’s dead.”

“That may be true, but I know my sister. If she is going to die she will take as much of this city with her as she can. But if I can give her a chance at escape, she might just be persuaded to surrender the day and spare the bloodshed.”

He seems odd. They haven’t spent that much time one on one but Arya has been acquainted with Tyrion Lannister, and each time was like meeting a different man. The first in Winterfell when she was but a child and he was still The Imp. And again a lifetime later when he arrived with Daenerys Targaryen and her armies, wearing the badge of her hand. This man in front of her is neither. This man is at the end of his tether, full of fear and desperation. “You believe she’ll surrender? After everything?”

“I have to!” He exclaims, voice cracking. “If she doesn’t Daenerys will wipe this city off the map for good. Your brother doesn’t believe she’s capable of it but I see it in her. The potential. But there’s also potential for her to be great and rule magnificently. This is the decisive moment that we stand in, and it could go either way. If she gives into her rage and razes the city it’s all over, they will never accept her as queen and she will turn her fury onto the entire kingdom, city by city until somebody gets close enough to kill her. I don’t want that, not for the kingdom and not for her.”

“Is that the speech you’re going to make to your sister? Will she be convinced?”

He laughs, “No of course not. Cersei has never been in this out of any desire to serve the people. She’s never even bothered to pretend. She is a creature of more primal priorities, she wants to live surrounded by things she loves, and to irradiate anything that threatens that. The crown has been the way for her to secure that, but now it is the crown that is the threat. If I can make her see that I hope that she will give it up.”

Arya doesn’t find that she shares his hope. Motivated by love - that is being too kind to Cersei. She is an evil woman and she won’t give up that easily. But there’s no harm in letting Tyrion have a crack at her first. “I’ll be there to kill her when you fail.”

“Thank you sweet lady for your faith in me.” The man replies, the first hint of his old junior. “What about you Clegane? Here to save or to kill?”

The Hound spits onto the rocks, “I don’t give a fuck about your bitch sister. But wherever she is, is where the thing that used to be my brother will be. And the only one who gets to kill  _him_  is me.”

“Happy enough to let you have that one.” Tyrion says, “So what say you Arya Stark? Shall we go find the queen?”

 

**JAIME**

If one travels hard and conditions are good, the journey from Winterfell to Kings Landing takes three weeks. With the encroaching winter, conditions are not good, yet Jaime manages to shave it down to two.

He does it by riding his horse nearly to death, and himself for that matter. The stallion he’d ridden north is bred for battle, for short sprints and close maneuvering, not so for long distances. So he sells it after the first leg, when he comes upon a farm with a good heard. The farmer is reluctant but Jaime eventually persuades him to take the stallion in exchange for two sturdy northern mares. The warhorse is a purebred stud of prestigious Dornish lineage and is worth as much as the mans whole farm combined, but Jaime needs a fresh mount if he has any hope of making it.

The mares are much hardier both for the long pushes and the snowy terrain. By switching between the two he’s able to ride a day and a night without stopping, and only breaks for rest when he’s on the verge of collapse. He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t dream - which is a mercy as he’d doubtlessly find himself plagued with nightmares.

He struggles to remember to eat, and struggles more to find food. What’s left of his gold sustains him for the first week, but after that he has to scrounge and beg. He finds that he doesn’t feel shame - his pride left behind somewhere within the the walls of Winterfell. He gradually sells off his belonging, his fine leathers, his boots and belt, his thick cloak and padded vest. With the what’s left over after he feeds himself he redresses in rags. The only things he doesn’t pawn are the gold hand and Widows Wail. He can’t bring himself to part with either, but he keeps them both carefully hidden. In the state he’s in he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to defend himself if one of the bandits that shares the road got a fresh idea to try and take them. It’s a lucky thing he looks so much a worthless beggar, with his shabby new horses and clothes.

From Dragonstone Daenerys Targaryen has a weeks march on the capitol. Or mere hours on the back of a dragon. Based on the nature of the last letter from Jon Snow she doesn’t seem in the mood to delay. It’ll take the favour of all the gods for Jaime to make it in time. He hasn’t prayed in years, not since the early days of his nighthood before Roberts Rebellion. After all this time he doesn’t even know what he believes anymore, and he suddenly longs for that faith that he barely remembers having. His mother had been a godly woman, dedicatedly attending the sept in Casterly Rock every holy day. She would take them with her, although their father never had time or patience for it. Neither had Cersei for that matter.

But Jaime had loved it. He remembers the thrill of getting dressed up in his best clothes, of walking hand in hand with Cersei toward the gilded spire of the sept which reflecting the morning sun in a gold beam that fell on the polished cobbled to light their way. He loved the swooping birds that lived in the sept wall, shrieking and dipping low over their heads. He loved the high ceilings of the rafters and the colourful paintings on the walls. He loved the way the tiles echoed every little sound into a song. He loved sitting cozied up next to mother on the benches while the septon spoke in his warm, grandfatherly voice.

The warmth of that faith is long gone, but he finds himself chanting in his head to the beat of the horses hooves on the dirt.  _Please, please, please. Let me make it in time._

He tries not to think too hard about what he’s riding towards, or what he’s left behind. The exhaustion helps keep his mind blank most of the way. All he has energy for is  _ride, don’t fall off your horse, stop for water, ride, swap horses, stop for sleep or you’ll die, keep riding._

Two weeks. (Later after its all over, He’ll dream back to this time. He’ll long to go back and stay here, in this stasis state of mindless grinding, where every possibility still has a chance. Gods just let this go on forever.) He arrives in Kings Landing to fire and blood.

 

**TYRION**

The royal chambers of the Red Keep are lavishly appointed with every luxury to royal family could ever want for. Inside all appears tranquil, until one looks too closely at the way the mid-morning light is filtering through a haze of slowly undulating smoke. Cersei Lannister, the queen, stands in front of a tall window facing out to look over the city. Below, two armies clash in violent conflict, one clearly overrunning the other as the streets fill with bodies. The walls of the city burn, and in the bay beyond the last of the iron fleet sinks, shouldering, into the ocean.

The door to the chamber opens with a groan. Cersei barely registers having heard it, not bothering to turn away from the window. She merely speaks, in a measured way that one might use to comment on the weather. “Lord Gregor is dead than, I presume?”

The intruder is her brother, Tyrion Lannister the imp. He has clearly had to fight to get here, the blood of others and from the numerous wounds to his chest and arms staining his clothes. The pin on his chest still gleams bright. He’s holding a sword that is too large for him. He stares at her with eyes that have seen horrors. That…thing back there, that had taken so long to die, had not been Gregor Clegane for a very long time. He doesn’t answer the question, which is answer enough.

Cersei doesn’t spare a second to mourn her man, her attention never wavering from the scene outside. “Are you here to kill me?” She asks in the same casual tone. “First mother, then father. Joffrey. Now me. You will not rest until you’ve destroyed my entire family will you?”

Tyrion steps farther into the room, a perplexed frown now creasing his features. “I didn’t kill your son. Olanna Tyrell confessed, remember? I _know_ you know this by now. Cersei-“

“All I know.” She snaps, something tight creeping into her voice, “Is that from the moment you entered this world, all you have done is take and _take_ and _TAKE!”_ Her voice rises with each word, echoing off the stones. Upon closer inspection she is not as unruffled as she’d first appeared, her poise is a thin veneer and it’s cracking. “You have taken everything from me. You took Jaime, with your poisonous words. You are taking my kingdom, for your bitch queen. I should have killed you long ago. _I should have killed you_ and now you’re here to kill me.”

He takes another step. She turns her head and bares her teeth in a feral grimace. “Stay back!”

Tyrion raises his hands in a motion of peace, his voice adopting the pitch of one coaxing a wild animal. “I swear I am not here to harm you. I never wanted this, please believe me. I never wanted you to hurt like this. I loved your children, I loved our family, every day I ache for what’s happened to us. I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through and for what parts I’ve played. I want to make it right, please.” He makes a show of slowly lowering his sword to the ground, and sliding it away. “Let me help you.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “Help me,” half chuckle, half choking. Down below a great black dragon soars downward to light upon one of the crumbling walls. Even over the great distance it seems to turn its horned head in her direction, and she imagines she feels its eyes like burning embers. “You can’t help me. Your queen is here, she is at my door. Don’t you think I know how badly she wants me to burn? And you dare to come here, wearing her hand?”

Tyrion’s hand goes to his chest, to cover the broach that sits over the place his heart is. “I am her hand, but I am still your brother. If you will let me I can help you. You don’t need to die today, your baby doesn’t need to die.”

Her own hand drifts down to her middle, even as her eyes fix back on the horizon. “Even if I surrender she will not let me live.”

“But if you surrender, if you ring those bells and tell your men to lay down their weapons, she will let the people live. And then you and I will retreat to the tunnels. I have a boat waiting in the bay. With the attention on the walls and the cover of the smoke you should be able to get away unseen.”

She stares, still so beautiful even after everything. The hand leaves her abdomen to touch the crown sitting atop her golden head instead, caressing it lightly. “Everything I’ve done.” She says hoarsely, eyes taking on a glaze. “Everything has been for this. I can’t surrender. I can’t give it up now.”

Tyrion steps even further still, the distance between them closing, “If you don’t then you’re dead! And then it truly will have been for nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! I beg of you, there’s still a chance, sail to Bravos, sail to Pentos, sail farther and start a new life. If not for your people than for the life that grows inside you! Bring your child into a world where you don’t have to be afraid every day, where you can just be his mother, where you can just love him, nurture him, protect him. Give him all of the things Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen never got a chance to have.”

Silence for a moment, the sound of her breathing is the only thing that falls between them. It’s taken on a panicked pace. “I don’t trust you.” She finally announces, “Monstrous thing. A curse on our house. _Valenqor_.” She hisses the last word, strange and foreign. Then all at once she seems to shake this momentary craze off and replaced by dead monotony. “In the game of thrones you either win or you die.”

Tyrion looses his patience and strides across the remaining stretch of floor to seize her by the elbow. Surprisingly she lets him without resistance, “You fool! You have a chance to live!” He drags her bodily around away from the window, to face him fully for the first time. “You-!” He cuts himself off, staring at her. At her slender form. This can’t be right, she is as tall and willowy as ever. By this time, months into her pregnancy, she should be visibly carrying. He tilts his head back to look at her, realization dawning. “You…you aren’t pregnant, are you?” She snatches her arm away. “Was there ever a baby? What was that, a lie?”

Her mouth parts and for the first time in a long time she resembles the girl he’d grown up with. Still so young, scared and devastated. “There was!” She whispers, hands going back to her stomach, fisting the fabric of her dress. “There was. I-something happened. It died.”

He regards her, with a renewed sense of remorse. A lone tear rolls from her eye, and she raises one trembling hand to dash it away, this lonely, scared girl. “Oh my darling sister.” He whispers, “We did leave you all alone, didn’t we.”

 

**JAIME**

 The streets surrounding the Red Keep are a chaos of bodies. The invading army hasn’t reached this far yet, and all of these people are civilians. But terror has driven them to violence already, the mob crushing anyone who stumbles underfoot, all pushing and screaming as they feel their doom approaching. The dragon queen has burned a ring around their city, they swarm like ants upon the castle, for surely it is the safest place, their queen is here.

Jaime Lannister pushes his way through the crowd. He’s dressed in plain brown rags, tattered and filthy from weeks of hard riding. He’d managed to cut down the journey from Winterfell by days, riding his horse and himself nearly to death. He hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours in that time, nor eaten more than scraps. He is weak from it, barely able to hold his own against the crush of bodies. If he falls it’s as good as over, he will die there covered in piss and shit anonymous at the base of the Red Keep.

He pushes on, possessed by his mission. Somehow he makes it into the keep, the ebb and flow of the mob carrying him like a river. The guards seem to have abandoned their posts, probably when it became clear that they were losing the battle. The castle is teaming with people an it’s even madder inside, completely unrecognizable, full of wailing peasants, all of the finery torn to shreds and trampled.

And onward. He knows where Cersei will be with more certainty than he’s ever known anything. The secret tunnels that he takes up the tower are deserted, too well hidden for the panicked hoard to find. The steps speed under his feet, sheer exhaustion blurring how long it takes to make the long climb. He stumbles many times, once badly enough that he falls hard and smashes his face on the stone. Ignoring the rush of blood to his mouth he pushes ever forward.

The staircase spills him out to the mezzanine at the centre of the royal quarters. This far from the fighting it’s quiet and still. But evidence of the conflict paints the floor in great streaks of crimson gore. Candelabras lay upturned, furniture shattered. Sandor Clegane sits slumped against the far wall, it’s hard to tell but he looks dead. Arya Stark sits presses close beside him, watching Jaime emerge. He’s so preoccupied looking at them that he doesn’t notice the third body before he steps in it. Looking down he sees that his boot has landed in a piece of Gregor Clegane. One of the many that lies strewn across the tiles.

His stomach roils. He’s seen more dead bodies in his life than most, and this one looks wrong. The corpse is bizarrely bloodless, despite the fact that its been chopped into a dozen pieces. The chunks glisten sickly with a tar-like black substance. It stinks of old carrion. Good riddance.

The blood that does puddle across the floor must come from the other man. Sandor Clegane barely looks more intact than his fallen brother, Jaime might not have recognized him if not for his distinctive stature. Arya Stark, face covered in blood that runs from a wound on her head, clutching what looks like a deep gash in her thigh, is in by far the best shape of them. And she still looks half dead.

“Cersei?” He asks, voice badly roughened from days of disuse.

She tilts her head at the door along the wall from where they lay. “In there. With your brother.”

Tyrion. His chest clenches. He nods at her and rushes past them to the chamber door, feeling completely unprepared for anything that may lie on the other side.

 

**DAENERYS**

 The walls of Kings Landing lie mostly in ruin. Great piles of rubble and slabs of stone are all that’s left after centuries proud and tall. Dust and smoke billow in the air thickly enough to block out much of the light of the sun. In the debris soldiers fight, but it is not much of a battle. The dragon fire had decimated most of the royal army, and the hired company too. Those left have scattered, some fleeing deeper into the city, and a few brave souls determined to stand their ground who are being methodically picked off by the invading troops.

Daenerys Targaryen sits astride her lone dragon, surveying from atop one of the few remaining watchtowers. She looks fierce and frail all at once, her hair a tangled mane falling around her face, dressed in a simple gown stained sooty and torn. No longer a refined queen draped in silk and jewels.

A blood-rider.

In the square below her generals wait. Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth, Greyworm the unsullied. They’ve halted their advance for the time being, to wait. To give Tyrion Lannister the chance he’d begged for to try to broker a surrender with the Lannister Queen. But the minutes tick by and the bells remain silent. Daenerys Targaryen has waited twenty years for this moment, and she will not wait much longer.

As the dust begins to settle, and the rays of sun stand a chance of returning, the dragon queen shifts her weight forward. Her dragon spreads its wings wide and alights, graceful for a beast of its enormity. Their path is straight and true.

She is done waiting

 

**JAIME**

 The South-East tower of the Red Keep, a private sanctuary for a monarch. Stepping into the room is like stepping back in history, into another life. Relativity little time has passed since Jaime was last here, only a matter of months. But so much has happened. So much that can’t be undone. Artifacts from that past surround him, memories and ghosts, of children, of Cersei, of himself.

He passes through the foyer, down a half-flight of stairs and into into the main living space. Haloed by the arched windows are his brother and his sister. Closer than they have been in years, they could almost be mistaken for embracing.

They both turn at his entrance. And gods he loves them so much that for a moment he is lost to the rush of relief at seeing them both alive. Then a flutter of movement catches his eye, directly behind them in the distance but rapidly drawing nearer. “She’s coming!” He calls to them, “We need to get out of this tower. She’s coming to destroy it and we’re sitting ducks here.”

Tyrion looks out and sees that the dragon is indeed soaring their way. She’s not bothering with the city, small mercies. Straight for the throat. He looks at Cersei next, who’s eyes haven’t left Jaime since he appeared. “He’s right, it’s now or never.”

“Now or never.” She echoes, finally looking down at him. Her eyes are dry now. “You truly still think we’re getting out of this alive?”

He clenches both of her hands in his, “I do! I must! The Lannister family will not die today.”

“No.” She whispers, eyes softer than they ever have been when directed at him. His skin prickles.

“It won’t.”

“Just you.”

Jaime is yelling, running, but Cersei has Tyrion by the hands, and they’re so close to the window. He sprints but it’s no use, Cersei barely has to tug at all and Tyrion is out. One moment there, the next moment gone. His face in the last second had been one of true surprise. He hadn’t thought she’d do it.

Jaime is still yelling when the first fire-strike hits the castle. He’s already falling to his knees as the floor below their feet lurches with the impact. It’s not on their level, but it’s close enough that the heat sucks all the air from the room and the walls and ceiling shake debris over their heads.

The shaking only lasts a moment but Jaime never feels the ground steady after that. He’s still screaming, screaming Tyrion’s name, cursing Cersei’s. She’d fallen too, upon impact, against the pillar beside the window. Her mouth is bleeding. Normally the sight of blood on her spotless white skin would be abhorrent to him, but now all he can think of is Tyrion’s astonishment. “How could you? How could you how could you?” He’s chanting at her over and over. He’s at her side, grabbing her, dragging her to her feet and slamming her back against the wall. She’s so pale, green eyes blinking disorientation. “He’s your brother!” He’s yelling into her face. His brother. Little Tyrion, the squat little lion cub who’d romped at Jaime’s heel throughout their childhood. Little clever Tyrion who’d always wanted so badly to be heard, who had so much to say but so few people to listen to him. His halo of spun gold curls bobbing around just below eye-level, always underfoot always there, persistent, foolish boy. What Jaime would give to hold him close for one more hug, hear the burble of his laugh one more time. Now he’s so far away. How his wee bones must’ve shattered.

The dragon roars, close. Another impact rumbles it’s way from deep in the castle, farther away than the last, but no doubt as devastating Cersei is speaking, “He was going to kill me! I know he was Jaime you have to believe me! The witch told me so!”

“The witch?” Jaime cries, his face is wet, vision blurring so that he can barely see her. “What witch, what the fuck are you talking about? He wanted to help you? He was trying to save you! You killed him!”

“He was going to kill me!” She insists, “It’s what he’s always wanted! He would’ve killed us all if he had the chance! I had to kill him first! For us, everything I’ve done has been for us! For you and for me and so that we can be together! And now that he’s gone we can be! Don’t you see? We’re all that’s left now. Just us, the way it should always be.”

For you. For us. His ears ring with it. The air is thick with the putrid smell of sulphur and its making his head spin. Another explosion rocks the castle and this time the tremor feels different, structural. But does it even matter? “You’re hateful.” He says to her.

“No.” She snarls, “You don’t hate me. Don’t you _dare_ pretend you do.”

“I don’t hate you. But I hate what you’ve done. I hate what I’ve done for you, I hate what we’ve done together, what we’ve done to the world. But no, I could never hate you.”

She smiles then, joyful and resplendent. This is just what she’d wanted to hear, even as their kingdom crumbles around them. He’s got his hands around her neck without thinking about doing it, white rage sizzling up his arms, bending his fingers to dig into her soft skin.

She keeps smiling, not realizing what’s happening until it’s too late.

She fights back only at the very last second, scratching at where they're connected. Her nails catch on his flesh hand, scraping long and bone deep. But her strength has already fled, and she was never very strong of body to begin with was she? No, Cersei’s strength was of emotion, that was always her weapon of choice. Wielding her beauty and her vulnerability sharper than any sword, drawing affection back as taught as a bow string, back, back, back until it would loose with lethal accuracy. And oh had he fallen on her blades, willingly and repeatedly. Thrown himself upon her and convinced himself that the wounds were love.

Fire hits the tower, right where they are, and he thinks that he’s dead. It’s all burning agony and noise and he can’t feel Cersei’s pulse against his hand any longer. They must be dead, he thinks, consumed by dragon fire. _Finally,_  he thinks as the world burns out,  _it's finally over._

 


	2. Chapter 2

** ARYA **

 

When the shaking stops, Arya Stark sits up, pushes aside the debris the that had fallen onto her, and takes stock of her injuries.

The one on her head from when the Mountain had thrown her against the wall is still oozing, and the vision still hasn’t returned to her right eye. At least one of her ribs is broken from a kick, making each breath agony. And the slash to her thigh is doing its best to drain her dry. It’s not looking good. But if she stays in the castle for much longer none of that matters anyway; it’s coming down.

She turns to look at her companion. At some point in the last few minutes he had finished dying, and now lays still, eyes staring at nothing. She closes them. “Goodbye Sandor.” She says. Then tries to stand.

It goes poorly. Between the leg and the head and the blood-loss it’s a miracle she’s even conscious. She braces herself against the wall, which is now half blown apart. The huge door to the queens chamber is off its hinges and burning, and the room beyond it has been decimated. The dragon must’ve hit nearly directly, the walls are all but gone, it’s a miracle the ceiling has come down entirely. Based on how the stone creaks and groans its only a matter of time.

Time that she doesn’t have. There’s no way she’s making it out of the castle when one step takes her to the brink of consciousness. But she can’t die here, in the house of her enemies burned to death by the dragon queen. It would kill Jon. It would add fuel Sansa’s rage and likely tip them past the point of no return.

She manages to stagger through the mess, into the next room. It takes her long minutes that she can’t afford to locate Jaime Lannister. He’s nearly invisible, covered so thickly in dust and ash and bricks that he blends right into the ruins. But a glimmer of gold leads her there, where his arm lays half exposed. She hobbles over, wondering if he’s dead and that’s that. But when she shoves him over onto his back he moans. “Get up!” She says, shaking him roughly. “Jaime Lannister! You need to get up now!”

His eyes blink open, gleaming crescents of cut emerald in a soot smeared face. He doesn’t appear fully lucid, blinking groggily at somewhere past her shoulder. “Look at me. I need your help. Are you injured? Can you stand?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but just starts coughing. She forces the matter and hauls him up to sitting. “Get up!”

He obeys, staggering to his feet. He seems relatively unharmed, save for the dumb expression. It must be shock. She can work with that if he just keeps his feet moving. “We’re getting out of here. I can’t walk so you’re going to need to carry me. Can you do that for me?”

He gapes at her. And then back down into the rubble where the body of Cersei Lannister is barely discernible next the the place he’d been lying. A large slab of stone lies obscuring most of her body. Blood streaks a river over the plains of her face. She is most definitely dead. Arya spares a moment to search for victory in her heart - the evil is defeated. But all she feels is the urgency to get out of here, to find Jon and leave this place. To see Sansa and Bran again. Jaime on the other hand moans again in anguish, “Oh Gods no. What did I do?”

“Don’t look at her look at me. Did you or did you not swear an oath to my mother to see me safely home? Are you ready to keep that oath?”

In any other time she’d feel for him, he looks like a man dying. There are muddy tear tracks heavy on his cheeks, and he’s hunched half forward like his whole body is curling inward. But they need to start moving. “Mourn later, I need you to do this for me first. Okay? Remember your oath!”

At last he tears his agonized gaze away from his sister’s broken body. She doesn’t ask about where Tyrion has gone, she has a feeling she knows. She holds out her arms and he stoops to hoist her into his arms. The pressure on her ribs is hell but she bites her cheek against it. Better than dying.

Another deep shockwave rolls through the building. She speaks directly into his ear. “You are going to have to run.”

 

 

**JON**

 

Jon Snow pauses in the middle of the fighting to watch the as the Dany ravages the Red Keep. Ash falls like powdered snow onto his upturned face, turning his black hair silver.

She is flying in great arcs around the castle, on each pass Drogon sends a jet of fire crashing into the brick, leaving jagged gashes gaping in the sides. There’s no way they’re going to be able to destroy the whole thing, it’s too large, but she seems to be doing her best at it. Already several lower wings have been razed, whole towers sent crashing into the sea. And what does remain standing dances with flames.

Much of the population of the city had been inside the Keep’s walls. Innocents naively thinking that their queen would be able to protect them, that she would be willing to. Daenerys hadn’t gone out of her way to scorch the civilians, but she certainly isn’t letting Cersei’s human shield stop her from laying waste. All of those poor people. Hundreds of them.

Gods he hopes Tyrion had gotten out. He’d been so determined that he’d be able to reach Cersei, that there was a heart inside her that could still be swayed. Even after everything she’d done. How such a smart man had cling to such a futile hope, Jon doesn’t know. But then he thinks about if it had been Arya or Sansa, and he knows he would have tried as well, no matter what.

As soon as Daenerys had lifted off, her army had resumed their advance. The royal army doesn’t seem sure of what to do, when it’s so clear that the city is lost, but as no order the surrender had gone the generals still attempt to hold what ground they have left. At this rate it’ll be a long and bloody day, the narrow and winding streets restricting the pushes, making traditional military moves impossible. Perhaps it’ll even take multiple days if the defending forces refuse to stand down. Days of chasing individual soldiers down alleys too narrow to swing a sword.

Idle for too long, a soldier charges at Jon and he barely gets his sword up in time to deflect. He’s despatched easily enough. The next person to break across the line is an older man who looks like he’s some sort of laborer, clearly having come to the correct conclusion that running away from the castle is the safest course of action. Jon steps aside to let him pass, but an unsullied who’s been fighting nearby catches him with a spear to the back.

Jon grabs the soldier, spins him around. “what the hell are you doing?” He bellows, “that was a civilian! He was running away!”

The unsullied glares through the slit of his helmet, “Nobody passes.”

Jon gapes at him, “That doesn’t apply to the smallfolk!”

“Nobody passes. Mhysa has said.”

Daenerys had…

He looks around, there are people in doorways, peering out with terror in their eyes. Terrified of them, of these ruthless outsiders pillaging their home. A woman catches Jon’s eye and flinches, pulling her weeping children close and disappearing from sight.

“Don’t kill them!” He repeats, and then puts his head down to dash down the street. Grey Worm is hard to discern among his troops, the only thing marking him from his troops is the small silver Targaryen crest on his breastplate. When Jon does spot him he shouts his name, dodging through the chaos to his side.

“Grey Worm! One of your men killed a civilian! He said that the queen has ordered it. This cannot be true!”

The man raises his brows almost imperceivably. He’s got fine dots of blood splattered all across his face guard. “The pretender queen has sealed their fate when she did not surrender. Our Queen has said that no one is permitted to leave the city, all must witness.”

“That’s fine, just tell your men not to use lethal force. These are to be her subjects, if we slaughter them they will never love her! The fear of the mad king’s reign still lingers, we must do everything we can to create our own foundation. Think about it, this is what she would want.”

For a moment Grey Worm seems like he’s going to refuse, the tip of his spear is slick with blood and too close to Jon’s face. He tilts his helmed head back to look at where the dragon flies, from this distance they can barely see Daenerys on his back, a dash of silver on the black. It does not paint the picture of a merciful woman. Jon grabs Grey Worm by the shoulder and tugs him back to look him in the eye. “Killing them all won’t bring them back. The people they’ve taken from us. All we can do now is build a world that we can live with. Can you live with this, really truly?”

For a second Jon thinks that it’s not worked, that Grey Worm is too far lost in the depth of his grief that he’s unreachable. But then the man lowers his spear and takes a step back. He shouts something at his men in rapid Valyrian.

“Did you tell them not to hurt the small-folk?” Jon asks desperately, grabbing at his elbow to stop him from walking away.

“For the sake of our queen, we will not kill the small-people.” He moves too quickly for Jon to register it until he’s been hit in the solar-plexus by the blunt end of his spear, breaking his grip and sending him reeling backward. Greyworm glares down to him, any comradely they may have forged before replaced by cold distain. “But we make no promise about hurting.”

 

 

** ARYA **

 

At Winterfell, the dragons had seemed like godsend. Through the frigid cold black of the night they had cut paths of brilliant gold flame, the warmth and light the most welcome thing. Seeing them brought hope after it seemed like they would all die there. Seeing them felt like salvation.

Today the dragon is pure destruction. Arya watches it tear apart the red keep, jets of fire sent crashing straight through thick layers of ancient brick and mortar like nothing more than bread at breakfast. The dust blocks out the sun rendering the previously fair day as dark as the blackest storm, the haze tinted hellish hues of flickering red from the fires that burn around the square. Some of the building around the castle have caught fire, and nobody’s doing anything about it. It’s going to keep spreading.

And the bodies. She can’t look away from the bodies. Many burnt ones, curled up having died in clear agony. Many more that have been crushed by the pieces of castle that still rains down around them.  Jaime Lannister is on his knees beside her, dry heaving onto the cobbles. He’s an absolute mess, but he’d gotten her out, so she’ll allow him a moment alone. But only a moment, they still have work to do. The bodies will keep piling up if they don’t.

She turns to him, “Who’s in charge of the army right now? They’re mostly Lannister men right? Who’s leading them?”

It takes him a long moment to answer, long enough that she thinks he might really have lost it, but he eventually croaks, “Daven, Daven Lannister would be acting commander now.”

“And he’s your…?”

“My cousin. My mother’s brother’s son.”

“How well do you know him? Is he a reasonable sort?”

It takes a while to find the command post. The battle - if you can call it that - has lost all military structure and more resembles a pub brawl than anything. Daven Lannister is in one of the still fortifiable towers, far enough away and tall enough that they can see over the city. They’re halted outside by battle-ragged soldiers in Lannister livery. “Stop right there you!” One man calls, “If you know what’s good for yourselves run off and find some basement shelter in.”

Arya is the one to respond “Don’t you recognize your lord? He’s Jaime Lannister.”

The men squint disbelievingly. “Get out of here. I won’t say it again.”

Numbly Jaime shifts her in his arms so that he can hold up his hand, the tattered sleeve of his robe falling back to reveal the distinctive gold prosthetic. “Stand down.” His voice surprisingly steady and assertive considering he’d been foaming like a dying beast a short time ago. “I’m here to relieve my cousin of his command.”

Daven Lannister receives the unexpected reappearance of his Lord gracefully. He has the appearance of a man who laughed often, with crows-feet in thick clusters around warm brown eyes, a wide mouth with a natural upward curve into deep dimples, as well as a figure that looks like he’d been plumper before. He’s not laughing now, nor is he plump, his gaze endless with battle fatigue, his cheeks hollowed.

“Cousin.” He greets, the first man to recognize Jaime by sight, though even he had faltered. “I did not expect to see you again in this life.”

“Nor I you.” Jaime answers, and he puts her down so that the two men can grasp hands. “Forgive me my absence, I’m grateful to you for looking after everything.”

“Gods you’d bloody better be. Me, commanding the house army, it’s an honour I never wanted. We’ve lost so many…”

“We have. And we will mourn them all after this mess is over. The queen…” Arya worries for a moment that Jaime us going to falter on her, but he shakes it off. “The queen is dead, the day lost. we need to ring the bells.”

Daven Lannister gapes, “The Queen…the city! Surely not!”

“She was in the south tower when it came down. I held her body in my arms.”

“Cousin I am truly sorry.”

“As am I. But if we don’t concede now many more will die.”

“The queen said that we were not to surrender, that even if we did the dragon would slaughter the whole city regardless.”

“The Queen was mad. Daenerys Targaryen sent an offer of armistice, and the queen killed the man who brought it. If we ring the bells the fighting will stop and no more innocents will die today.”

The other man looks torn, no doubt knowing that continuing would mean slaughter. “You’re a deserter you know.” He says, “A traitor. There’s an order out for your head.”

“And who will you deliver it to, my head? The burning pile of bricks there? We’re finished Daven, and if you don’t want to bring the complete end to our house here and now, you will ring the bells.”

They look together out over the city. At the remains of the Red Keep and the monster that continues unrelentingly to rain death. To the fires that spiderweb forth from the castle, catching the houses and shops along the streets. At the distant fighting in the outer rims. “Damn it.” Daven whispers. “You have the command my lord.”

Arya breathes out the breath she’s held caught in her chest. “Ring the bells!” She exclaims.

Daven Lannister looks at her quizzically, but Jaime echoes her, more quietly. “Ring the bells.”

They chime and it tastes so sweet. They all turn to watch the dragon, hearts in their throats. Sure enough it halts, hovers in mid-flight with those great wings churning, for a long moment before it turns and flies away back to the city wall where it lands. They've done it.

 

 

 

The moment it’s great body touches the ground the explosions start. And they all watch together, Lannister, Starks, and Daenerys Targaryen, as the Kings Landing lights up brilliant burning green.

 

 

 

** JON **

 

The throne-room is remarkably intact. The walls gape with holes that allow daylight to fall on the scene, the cracked tiles and fallen ornaments. But the great pillars still stand, protecting the integrity of the room. Ashes fill every corner, scattered over the hulking, ugly shape of the iron throne dulling it’s gleam, still more drifting from the rafters.

Daenerys stands and stares for a long time. This is what she’s been working towards, fought for, suffered for, lost so much for. It’s hard to tell, watching her stand there, how she feels. She won’t let any of them near her, hasn’t said much since the battle ended. Only Greyworm has been permitted by her side and even he has fallen back to allow her this alone. They will give her as much time as she needs.

As they wait Jon can’t help but think about this place, of all that it holds. This is not how he’d pictured his first visit to the capitol, as a younger man. He’d once thought, all that lifetime ago, that he would come here for Sansa’s wedding day. That he’d stand in this hall as his sister became a queen, that he’d visit her in her happy home, stroll with his family through the corridors, chase her children through the gardens.

Now he’s here as a queen ascends the dais, in the ruin of a castle he’d helped sack, in the city they’d conquered. His father had died here, his sisters had suffered horrors here. And now, the realization that his bloodline is buried even deeper here. That the throne in front of them had witnessed the lives and deaths of so many of his ancestors.

It’s heavy. And the air feels it. For something to drag him out of his dark thought Jon looks around at the others in their party; a motley collection that he never would have dreamed he would keep with. Ser Davos has survived yet another battle, the same pensive frown that he always wears on his brow. Perhaps he too is comparing this moment to how he’d once expected it to go. He might be thinking of Stannis Baratheon, and the dreams they’d once shared.

Of course Arya is close by, always trailing behind like a shadow these days. Sneaky little brat, following them down from Winterfell. Jon should have known she wouldn’t be able to stay out of the fight, although he’d desperately hoped she would. He’d almost lost her today, and wouldn’t have even known it had she perished in the collapse of the south towers. The whole side of the keep had tumbled into the ocean, and that’s where she would have laid while they’d be forever wondering where she’d disappeared to.

And to think that they owe her life now to Jaime Lannister of all people, who’d once seemed so set on tearing their family apart. Although the man is far from the figure he once was. During Robert’s visit to Winterfell he’d seemed the pinnacle of a man, the living legend of the golden lion come to life. Now he’s unrecognizable even from how he’d been just weeks ago at the battle for the north. He’s shrunk, lost the healthy muscle that once filled his physique. His face is sunken and etched with new lines, the famous golden hair lost its hue, now a washed out greying bronze that hangs straw-like over his brow. With his scraggy beard and drab clothes he looks more like a hermit than the lord of a noble house. Somewhere along the way he’s lost his metal hand; the only thing golden about him now is the handle of the great Valyrian sword that still hangs at his hip. He clings to it with his heavily bandaged left hand, even though there’s no threats left.

His presence too had been a surprise, and Jon will be forever in his debt for it. He and Arya have stayed close since they appeared, staggering like ashy corpses out of the rubble. He’d even seen Arya lean on him at one point, when her bad leg had faltered.

What a world they have entered. Arya and Jaime Lannister standing shoulder to shoulder.

Daenerys has reached the top of the dais, and the quiet assembly falls even quieter, collectively holding their breath. She raises a hand out, reaching, as if to touch the razor edge of one of the swords. But she doesn’t quite. Dropping her arm she turns slowly to face them, back straight and poised like a queen. _The_ queen.

The mood of the room is anything but celebratory.

The silence drags. After so long spent fighting, spent planning and traveling, rushing and running, the stillness is unnatural. Jon is more exhausted than he’s ever been but energy vibrates through him, vibrates with nowhere to go. Daenerys stares above their heads. The silence is excruciating.

Eventually, perhaps realizing that nobody else is going to break it, she takes a breath, rolls her narrow shoulders back and asks, “Our losses?”

Greyworm answers promptly from the bottom of the stairs. “Eighty-three unsullied, one hundred and two injured.

A Dothraki steps forward. Jon doesn’t recognize him - all of the Dothraki officers he’d known have been killed. This ones braid is shorter, hanging between his shoulders instead of to his waist like his predecessors. He speaks briefly in dothrak, Daenerys listens, and then translates for the rest. “We’ve lost twenty Dothraki, and thirty-four horses. Seventeen more were injured. We are down to forty-six heathy riders and thirty -two horses.”

Now it’s Jon’s turn to step forward. “Seventy-nine northmen fell.” He announces, “and forty-three injured. The gods watched over us this day.”

Daenerys nods, “Each general shall assign a man to organize funerals. We will all come together tonight to remember their lives and their deaths.”

They all murmur in agreement. Nobody points out the logistics of it. There’s very little wood to be found in this stone city, not enough to build pyres. Nor do they have the means to throw a funeral feast. Logistics will come later.

“Do we have a report of damages to the city?”

Ser Davos takes it upon himself to speak for the city. “It’s difficult to say at this time your grace, they are still digging out the bodies. It’ll be several hundred from the red keep and another from the walls by the look of it. And then the wildfires are still burning out…it will be a long time until we know for sure.” The air hangs heavy, but he moves on. “Repairs to the walls will need to begin straight away to secure our perimeter.”

The queen receives the news, and Jon only catches the flicker of emotion that crosses her face because he’s become so familiar with it. “Send a man to find as many masons as he can find. Any of our soldiers able to should aid in the excavation efforts. Is there a hospital here?”

“No city hospital your Grace, the local doctors practice from their homes, they are most likely already overwhelmed.”

“We should establish a hospital then. Is there a place that is suitable?”

Davos thinks for a minute, “The dragon pit would be best. It’s the only place large enough, and the cellars could be used for the most grievously injured, and as apartments for when the medics need to sleep.”

“See that it’s done. Use whatever local contacts you have and get them to help, the people will trust them more than outsiders.”

“We’ll need carts your Grace, to transport the injured. And strong men to carry people where the streets are impassable. We don’t have funds to pay for them.”

“The people who lend their carts to us should do it as homage to their queen. They will be rewarded once we are established.”

Ser Davos looks overwhelmed. It will be easier said then done. But he bows without challenging her command.

“And _our_ losses?” Daenerys asks, “Tyrion?”

They turn as one to Jaime Lannister. He looks like the last thing he desires is to participate in this. “Dead.” He says simply, eyes dull.

“You are certain? Did you see it happen?”

He nods. Daenerys’ face grows colder, “Speak when your queen bids you to, Jaime Lannister. And you will have care to address me as such.”

Lannister, once the proudest and most feared knight in the realm, looks at his feet. “Apologies your Grace. I did see it, Tyrion is dead.”

“And how,” Daenerys presses, “did my hand die? Look me in the eyes.”

He looks her in the eyes. “He fell from the red keep.” He clears his throat, “There is no way that he could’ve survived it.”

“He fell? Or was he pushed? And where were you when this occurred? How did you allow your brother to die?”

It’s cruel, and difficult to watch. Everyone knows that the Lannister brothers were close. Daenerys doesn’t allow him to choke out an answer. “That’s truly unfortunate. And after you rode all the way here from Winterfell. After you’d sworn you were going to stay.”

Her tone and the pointed nature of her questions makes it clear that she’s searching for somebody to blame. Jon feels obligated to step in, of all deeds in his life to hold Jaime Lannister to, this is not one. “My queen, without this man my sister would be among the dead as well. I for one, am grateful that you changed you mind Ser, regardless of the reason.”

Daenerys glares violet fire, and declines to address his point, “My soldiers found a boat tied behind the castle, small but equipped and outfitted for several days travel. What do you know of this, Lannister? Have you any ideas as to what it was doing there?”

If possible the man looks even more devastated. He can’t seem to summon a response, but now Arya speaks up. “Your Grace. Tyrion intended to sway Cersei to surrender the city by giving her a means to escape. He told me as much when we encountered him in the battle.”

“Is that so?” The queens voice has grown icy, “You accuse my hand of treason when he has only just been killed and is no longer able to defend himself? Everyone knows he held no love for Cersei. Whereas this man in front of me, everyone knows the tales of his love and how much it’s worth. Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe.”

Arya scowls, an expression Jon has seen too many times to count, and never ends well. “Why would I like? I hold no love for any Lannister, especially not this one.”

“Tyrion was desperate.” Jon points out, trying to break the hostility that’s filled the room. “We all were. You saw him your Grace, he was desperate for any way to reduce the bloodshed. And he has paid for it with his life. There is no reason to taint his memory with accusations of treason now.”

Daenerys looks like she’d like to press the issue, she looks for a moment like she herself is on the verge of breathing flames. But she visibly schools herself, closing her eyes and taking a breath and when she opens them again the rage has been reduced to a simmer. “Very well.” She says, “This is the second time, Jaime Lannister, that I have spared your life on behalf of a Stark. There will not be a third time.” She is speaking to Jaime but looking at Jon. “Never forget this. You owe your life to the grace of others.”

Jaime Lannister doesn’t much look like a man who cares about his life at the moment.

Daenerys turns to the room at large and Jon exhales. Arya’s fingers had been twitching for her sword the daft girl. “We have a kingdom to bring to order.” She calls, voice echoing around the ruined throne room. “The lords of all the houses, large and small, must be summoned to bend the knee. Send as many ravens as we must to bring them forth. Those who refuse will find no place in our new kingdom.”

She hasn’t set Jon a task to oversee, but neither has she bid him to stay. And the way she turns her back feels…cold. Final. Yet he cant bring himself to leave. When she speaks it's unclear if she's talking to him or to herself. “My brother talked a lot about this place. About this throne. A great chair made out of the swords of our family's enemies, blades still sharp enough to cut to bone.” As she speaks a sound comes from behind, the unique combination of scraping stone and sliding leather that the dragon makes when it’s on the ground. Jon steps aside as the creature moves across the room to its mother’s side. “I thought it would be larger.”

She looks so small standing there next to the dragon, and Jon can’t help but think that the throne also dwarfs her. She hasn’t yet touched it, never sat down to claim it like any other man would have. She’d look wrong there, he thinks. Small and pale and ethereal in such an ugly twisted thing.

It’s not really a surprise when she says it. But it is a surprise how softly the word comes, barely a whisper. The dragon hears it anyway. " ** _Dracarys_**.”

When the fire dies down the throne has been blasted completely flat, all that metal splayed like jagged lighting bolts of liquid iron, snaking across the tile. Unrecognizable. Oddly beautiful.

Only then does she turn to look at him. “I thought I’d feel different.”

His mouth is painfully dry, and he has to peel his lips apart to reply. “How did you expect to feel.”

“Happy. Vindicated. Whole.”

He dares to take a few steps closer, the air growing warmer with each one. “And how do you feel?”

Her face flickers, or maybe it’s just the heat still radiating from the molten iron. “I don’t. I don’t think I have for days. When Varys betrayed me I felt nothing. When I burned the their ships I felt nothing. As I tore down their castle I felt nothing. As I killed those people I felt nothing. And it terrifies me.”

His heart is breaking for her. “That’s something.” He tells her, closer still. “That’s not nothing.”

“But I thought-“ her voice breaks and she swoons, and he’s close enough to catch her before she hits the stone. The dragon turns to watch them with burning eyes, curving its giant body so that they’re surrounded by its great bulk on all sides. She trembling against him as he wraps her in his arms and holds her as tight as he physically can. She heaves a great sob, like the floodgates have opened, and clings back. Her cries are high and child-like. Jon finds that his cheeks are damp too. 

In the heat of the melted throne they cling to each other and they mourn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm trying to retain some major elements from the last episodes of the show, just rework them to...you know..actually work. 
> 
> If you want to talk about any of the points have at me! Let me know what you think! (ex: I wanted more attention given to the wildfire caches going off. They're a direct metaphor to her father's legacy and in the show they felt like they were thrown in as an afterthought.)

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 07/27/19: I added in a few scenes between Varys and Tyrions to patch the story together a bit more.


End file.
